


Pretty Fly for a White Guy

by cowboyopossum (galacticCannibal22)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Actor Eridan Ampora, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Author Karkat Vantas, Co-Writer Sollux Captor, Dirk Strider and Dave's Bro Aren't the Same Person, Divorce, Drugs, F/F, F/M, Film Director Dave Strider, Illustrations, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Minor Character(s), POV Dave Strider, There isn't really a main ship, This isn't sad, everyone is in their 30s or late 20s, kind of slow burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-27
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:20:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21929623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/galacticCannibal22/pseuds/cowboyopossum
Summary: “Were you talking about John?”There’s a name itching at the back of your mind and the more you ignore it, the worse it gets.You try to push it down for as long as possible.
Relationships: Aradia Megido/Equius Zahhak, Dave Strider/Karkat Vantas, Eridan Ampora/Sollux Captor, John Egbert/Dave Strider, Sollux Captor & Aradia Megido, Sollux Captor & Karkat Vantas, Sollux Captor/Feferi Peixes, Terezi Pyrope/Vriska Serket
Comments: 12
Kudos: 33





	1. Vanilla Ice

**Author's Note:**

> sometimes i see or watch something and it makes me find a fic i wrote years ago and edit and finish parts of it  
> will i finish this? hope so!  
> johndave? in 2019? no no wait, homestuck in 2019? oh god oh fuck

_“If you had the ability to go back in time and see your younger self, maybe around thirteen when you first started, what advice would have for further success in the industry? Is there anything you want to tell yourself?”_

_“There’s probably...a million things I want to tell past me- younger me to prepare for the future.”_

_“Do you think your movies would be impacted by your advice?”_

_“The honest truth is I don’t think any of it would pertain to film. I think, if I only had one chance to speak to my thirteen-year-old self, I would, uh, tell him that your friends should always come first. Something cheesy like that.”_

That interview keeps playing through your mind like a shitty overplayed pop song that no matter how much you hate the way it sounds, it’s just too fucking catchy. You can feel the stiff collar to the suit you wore that night digging into the sides of your neck. It’s some sort of phantom pain that just makes the repetitive scene even worse. For the fourteenth day in a row, you find yourself at three am browsing the internet just to rewatch that same clip over and over. Is it something you said that bothered you? Or is it the way you’re visibly sweating on camera and picking at the skin under your nails? 

_“Even before film and the money?”_

_“One hundred percent.”_

_“That’s very touching. Well, that’s all we have tonight, everyone. Thank you, Dave Strider, for joining us on our show and we wish you and your film success on its debut this weekend. Thank all of you for tuning in and we hope to catch you next time on-”_

You click out of the video just as the late-night host wraps up the show. The frame its paused on is a wide shot, you’re leaning over the loveseat and shaking the host’s hand. The host seems unaltered by your sweaty palm but maybe he was used to it with the hordes of guests he welcomed on set. You made a small remark about looking weird on camera to your assistant but he just shook his head and told you that the interview went pretty smooth. For the rest of that evening, you tried to shake it off. It wasn't until the next morning with the recording that you realized everything you said that night was terribly awkward. You watched it three times in a row the second you got your hands on it. You sat there in the fluffy white hotel robe as water dripped down from your hair to your bare face, staring intensely at yourself for the fifteen minutes of screen time on this entire forty-five-minute tape. It was strange to think that this person was even you, honestly, with styled hair and a black suit. You never wore a black suit, that just wasn't the Strider Style. Your manager, however, insisted on the plain attire to go along with the film's aesthetic. So there you sat in that dumb set chair that looked like it belonged in an office dressed in a straight-lined plain black suit like every man has in Hollywood. There were no stylistic freedoms, but luckily there was a strike classic red and your old faithful.

That was the host's opening statement to you after welcoming you on the show, how you always wear your sunglasses indoors or out. You gave the same answer as you always have about light sensitivity. The host then asked if surgery was ever an option. No, you replied simply. And that was the end of it. The rest of the following bits of conversation are lost to you even now, all basic questions about your film and past jobs that came with easy answers. The host continued on to ask about your upbringing. Pausing the tape, it’s there you notice the beads of sweat first appear on your pasty skin. There are times you consider yourself lucky because in situations like these you had the precise ability to pretend the question wasn’t personal. Acting school was your apartment and your tuition was free. You had the best poker face in the entire world. Though you know that on the surface level, without even barely scraping the skin of it all, that having this immense control did not make up for all those years in Texas.

You have never fully given your entire life story for anyone to digest. The only thing you wanted out there was your movies and your music, and that's how it has been for the past eight years you've had an audience. Though now it seemed everyone was hungry for something else. You gave in this past year and took a break from the comedy movies to make something more serious. Critics were starting to say that shitty jokes and puns were all you had to offer and for the longest time, you couldn't care less what some asshole from any magazine said. It was your manager who suggested that maybe you at least tried to write something a little heavyweight to sit in their stomachs for a few years. You gave in and wrote an entire screenplay in just three weeks.

The producer was in your office the next morning demanding an offer to make that shit happen.

You made that shit happen.

The host had asked if the main character's backstory had any real-life connection or was it all truly fictional. You sat and watched past you of only two weeks slide on a familiar shield that is somehow called a human face and spit out random sentences strung together with little correlation. Everyone bought the response, clapping and gulping your words down. For a moment, you thought you were off the hook there. But it seemed the host was just as bad as every tabloid or drama-centered social media and just dived right back in. The guy did a full somersault into your facade and with a standing ovation, he just dug his heels in deeper. No one in the public seemed to notice the twitchiness in your fingers or the sweat on your scalp. This interview came off as completely normal to everyone who didn’t know you, who couldn’t see how uncomfortable you truly were. Your assistant got a slight hint something was wrong when you ordered a glass of brandy neat at the small cocktail party afterward. You never drank alcohol in unfamiliar gatherings.

“Dave, the interview was good, ok?” Tavros ushered softly across the table, his brown eyes locked on your shades.

“You keep saying that,” You mumbled into the glass as you took a bitter sip.

“Are you uh...nervous about the movie?” His gaze was unwavering, brows furrowed as he leaned a little closer, “Everyone is pretty, um, excited. I know it’s different... then what you’re used to doing but I think it’s gonna be great.”

You had placed your glass down and nodded ever so slightly. The gesture made Tavros relax in his seat, a quiet sigh escaping his lips. He was also wearing a suit, a grey boxy fabric stolen from a rental place from a couple of years ago. The sleeves were too tight around his biceps and the pants rode up to his mid-calf when he sat down, displaying his bull-themed socks. He was a whole head taller than you and could whoop your ass if it weren’t for the fact that he would never hurt a living soul. You tried to buy him another suit but he politely declined and stated that he wasn’t interested in something so expensive when he already had what he needed. 

He also had a mohawk and could freestyle.

There was still that feeling in your gut you couldn’t place. Why did you feel so wrong about this one interview? Your first thought was that it was all just nerves. You have never written a serious screenplay before nor have you directed something with such grave undertones. The results after the premiere should have eased you down, you’ve never had so many people clap for you. Critics were driven wild and the fans couldn’t eat it up more. Suddenly, you weren’t just funny. Now you had dimension and people craved more of it. The ratings were high, millions of movie tickets are being sold, companies are reaching out to you like never before...but that isn’t the problem. You have an amazing team behind you with great connections to make your life and your job a hell of a lot easier. There wasn’t a lot of stress when it came to the film itself, that couldn’t be the issue.

_“...your friends should always come first.”_

There was an email sitting in your inbox from Karkat Vantas, the author of all those romance novels the western world was shitting themselves over. In the huge blocks of text, there was a request that both of you get together for lunch relatively soon. The outer corners to your mouth turned up as you responded with your own metaphors of pure nonsense, just because you knew it pissed him off and agreed. It turned out that neither of you was busy that day and decided to have dinner that night instead. This is what brought you to fumble with the buttons to your white shirt as you stumbled up the stairs to his well-hidden, secluded house.

Karkat had four novels out, all New York Times bestsellers and all were streaming in heaping piles of cash. He remained humble and lived rather quietly. You were under the impression he never even left his house. You couldn’t blame him. You’ve done everything you can to keep your own home private but the moment you’re out those doors the entire world has its eyes on you. Sometimes you wish you were an author instead, that way people didn’t have your face ingrained into the back of their eyelids that made a dinging sound when you lined up with it perfectly.

You rapped your knuckles against the front door and then pressed the doorbell twice. There was a shout and then loud scuffling. You heard every lock on the door be personally manhandled and assaulted before the shield between you and Vantas swung wide open. His eyes pierced into you like daggers and you couldn’t help but smile, just a tiny bit.

“You only have to knock once, you know.” Vantas practically hissed at you as he stepped to the side to let you in. You shucked off your coat and hung it up as he continued grumbling, “I’m already regretting asking to see your ugly mug, I have a fucking headache.”

“You don’t think I’m really that ugly, do you?” He was wearing a scratchy looking sweater in the dullest grey you have ever seen. His slacks were wrinkled and half rolled up at the ankle. The tone of your voice sent him reeling into a full-fledged rant as he leads you through the hall to his dining room. The room was dark with a yellow buzz of an overhead light. Candles were on the table next to the plates already set out and full of food.

“Oh shit, Karkat, are you trying to make me swoon here?” You asked, taking your seat as you watched him do the same.

“Strider, please as if I would try to do anything with you. This is called a nice meal, civil, something you do with people in social situations. I know it’s hard for you to understand culture sometimes because you’re just that dense, but trust me when I say this is just a friendly favor.” Karkat poured two glasses of wine, something you weren’t the biggest fan of, but you happily appreciated.

“You really know how to sweet-talk me.”

Your relationship with Karkat was...complicated. There have been several moments between the two of you that went way beyond “just friends”. You’ve slept in his bed more than five times and he has been to yours twice as much. As for something serious, well, you’ve never finalized anything. He’s written you letters explaining how he felt and you’ve given a few good shares of embarrassing rambles, but nothing ever progressed. It has always been small moments in time when you were desperate or he was lonely. Where he understood your emotions and you could swallow his. Karkat was important to you and knew all the shitty lines to your life story. The connection between you was far greater than a regular friendship. There are times you have wondered if it would ever spiral into anything more. You’ve never had the chance or the ability to commit. Things were comfortable in the jumbled mess that they were now.

“I saw your interview when it aired.” You paused midchew, placing your fork down in the bowl. You waited for him to continue, but he just kept staring at you like he was looking at some wild animal at the zoo.

You gulped down a mouthful of noodles, “And?”

“You were nervous,” Karkat fiddled with his glass before taking a sip, “I wasn’t going to pry, I thought I had it all figured out, you know. That last question though, it threw you for a loop.” His eyes flicked back up from the rim, grey meeting the shiny reflection of black.

“I was off my game that night.” You mused.

“Clearly,” He scoffed, slamming the glass down a little too hard. You went back to stirring around your plate of noodles, turning your head away from him so you didn’t have to pretend you were looking at him anymore. Karkat crossed his arms, glaring at you for what felt like an eternity. There was obviously more he wanted to say but he was letting it fester deep inside his head, processing his words carefully like it was a ticking time bomb.

“Were you talking about John?”

You regurgitated into your mouth, sending you spiraling into a coughing fit. Karkat jolted across the table and shoved a glass of water in your face as you continued to cough. You could feel your face burning as you hacked up your right lung and it didn’t help with Karkat’s forcing hands all in your personal quarters. You slapped his hands and snatched the glass, taking massive gulps of water until the burning of your throat subsided. Then you were left as red as a tomato, shaking, with a very intense Karkat buzzing in his chair.

“I’ll take that as a yes, then.” His voice was horrifyingly gentle.

“No, it wasn’t about John.” You croaked back, switching from the water back to the wine. That name felt foreign on your tongue, “Why would I bring that up?”

Karkat let a barking laugh die in his throat and gave you another one of his signature looks. You felt the air tighten around your throat like you were going to cough again. Luckily, the guy doesn't keep pressing on and eventually, the two of you settle back into chowing down into some finely cooked spaghetti. Thank you box noodles and Karkat's timed patience. He asked a few questions about your film and even told you parts he quite liked. That was soon followed by another rant of why the entire relationship near the end was forced and a huge mistake. You agreed and blamed it on shitty writing. Although, you know it's actually because of the time crunch and the understanding that some people like it when others fall in love under extreme stress. It was an excuse to make the main character seem more rounded and you took the most basic bait. Karkat was nowhere near pleased, but how could a simple squire please the king of romance?

He told you all about the book signings and meetings he attended the past few months. With bitter resentment, he informed you how they want to make all his books into movies. It wouldn’t work, he told you, the books were too complex. Karkat wrote them to remain words on paper instead of being squashed down and misinterpreted on screen. There was no way any stupid director could form a physical picture of the way his writing placed in his mind. He glared at you for that particular bit. It also didn’t help that a small few of the characters were based on real-life people and if it went to the big screen he feared the coincidences might just add up. Not to say everything he wrote was a cheap rendition of true events, the stories themselves all came originally from Vantas’s mind. You asked him if he ever wrote about you and he punched your shoulder claiming you would know if you’d read his work. But no, Karkat had insisted, he didn’t write about anyone he still knew.

You spent another hour after dinner chatting about each other's schedules and things that didn't really matter. He helped you as you put your coat on and even buttoned it up for you. He buttoned it all the way to your neck and you shoved his hands away to undo the top two, claiming it “uncool.” Karkat just rolled his eyes and said something about being a “white bitch” before opening the door and ushering you out. He kept talking, looking down at your red converse with one hand on the door and the other on the frame as he leaned sideways. You took this opportunity to move forward, aiming for his mouth to catch a quick kiss.

He dodged, catching the bottom half of your face with his palm.

“No, not tonight,” Karkat grumbled, his hand on your jaw as he pushed you back and sent you scuttling down his concrete steps, “It’s not a good idea.”

You try to not be hurt about it, “Fine, Karkles. I see how it's gonna be.” 

You are slightly hurt about it.

Karkat laughs, “Go home and get your shit together. I'll text you later.”

He slams the door shut and you're left standing in his yard staring dumbly at his porch. With twitchy hands, you unlock the driver’s side door to your car and plop yourself in. It's a very silent drive back to your house, no throbbing bass tracks on the speakers tonight. You have nothing but the sound of tires on the road and your own breathing. You make it home without running someone over for driving with sunglasses on in the dark. There’s a name itching at the back of your mind and the more you ignore it, the worse it gets.

You try to push it down for as long as possible.


	2. Heaven Knows I'm Miserable Now

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> merry christmas
> 
> and btw, since it is mentioned in this chapter  
> sollux isnt straight  
> but thats a future topic
> 
> if you like this at all..... can u please leave kudos or a comment so i may actually finish it

“Okay, so I got a call uh, yesterday evening. For NBC, a joint-interview kinda deal.”

“Tell them I’m busy.” You toss a tennis ball into the air and catch it. 

Tavros looks at you, frowning, “You want to turn the offer down?”

You give him the satisfaction of a glance as a response and throw the ball again. Your manager sits directly across from where you are currently laying. The layout of the room reminds you of therapy. Head propped against the armrest of a long, skinny couch. A man, disappointed with your choices facing you but not judging. The difference would be there’s a bong on the coffee table and it’s the lounge of a recording studio. Your old therapist didn’t have posters of musicians and a shag rug. Or a no-shoe policy. 

“Dave, that’s the uh, what is it…. The fourth offer you said no to the past two weeks?” Tavros pinches the bridge of his nose. “What’s wrong with you?”

A light rapping interrupts before you could come up with another excuse or perhaps not even a reply at all. Tavros jumps up, shoving his shirt into the front of his slacks and readjusting himself before opening the door. You prop yourself up on one elbow, watching as a familiar face barges his way in. A co-writer for several of your older comedy movies is standing in the doorway. He is staring at you like he wants to slit your throat open but his body language tells you that it would take too much effort to put that idea into motion. Like Tavros, he has on a plain white button-up, only his is fully tucked in. His pants are black and cuffed at the ankles so you can see his mismatched socks. Shoes are left in the hallway next to the two already present pairs. He has a major case of bedhead and purple circles under his eyes.

“Ah, Sollux, what brings you to this fine establishment on such a beautiful morning?” You say.

“I cannot believe you, you jug of sewer water,” Sollux plops in the office chair next to where Tavros had been previously seated.

“Nitram, write that one down.” You sit up, grabbing your coffee mug and sipping from it. Tavros grabs a notepad and scurries for a pencil, “No, that was sarcasm. Just sit, sit down.” Your mouth is still full of carbonated water, the liquid burning your tongue. 

Tavros sits down, sheepishly looking at the papers in his hand. 

“You really think I wouldn’t notice, huh?” Oh right, Sollux is glaring at you.

“You’re gonna have to be more specific because the list here could be endless.” You shrug, scratching the sorry excuse for a beard that you haven’t bothered to shave off. 

“You completely withdrew the script you had me slave over for the past six months,” Sollux hisses, “Why the fuck would you do that?”

Sighing, you sit up properly and put your hand on your knees. You forgot about withdrawing the manuscript from your producer’s ‘Get The Money For This Shit We Are Going Beastmode Let’s Make This Shit Happen’ pile. To be honest, it was in the way of your newest film and you needed to get your priorities in order to get that shit out as fast as possible. Amongst it all, you forced something you were looking forward to on the back burner without the realization it wasn’t just your work. You had asked Sollux to go in to edit and refine a script and make it worth screentime. Frowning, you realize now that’s probably why you haven’t seen him the last few months.

“Shit, bro, that’s on me. I completely forgot about it with the whole _Knight of Time_ fiasco. I meant to call you up, I really did,” The more words you spew out the more Sollux’s grip on his forearms tighten. 

“God, you are such a piece of shit,” He uncrosses his arms to rub his eyes from under his tinted glasses.

“I’m not gonna fight you on that because it is completely justified. Let’s all cool down and just hash it, all cold and shivery. You know that shit was funny, a major laugh. I did giggle a couple of times, and I mean giggle in the cool guy way. Like an ‘aha’... less of a ‘hehe,’ do you get what I mean by that?” You emphasize your words with hand gestures, “No, probably not. You don’t giggle, do you? More a chuckle kind of guy.”

“Dave.”

“I mean it’s totally okay for you not to giggle, no one is _forced_ to. I just think you should be more comfortable with types of laughs, you know? You can’t discriminate on one thing and be open on others,”

“What are you talking about.”

“I’ll call The Mayor and talk to him about a budget or something,”

Tavros peeps up, “He’s on vacation.”  
  
“He is on vacation! Good for him, the guy surely needs a break. Don’t we all?”

Sollux lets out an exasperated sigh, the anger draining from his lanky frame. “Just forget about it, Strider. It was a stupid concept, to begin with.”

“Whoa, hey! That’s my stupid concept I gave birth to, personally.” 

He stands and walks over to your rows of records and shelves of jars. Sollux’s posture is slumped like always, his piano fingers running over the titles and albums. You watch silently while Tavros twitches in the corner. You genuinely feel regret for causing your co-writer so much stress and fatigue. You’ll never tell him out loud and in person, but you admire his ability to work hard even when it isn’t needed. The stamina this guy possesses is immaculate. The many nights and early mornings the two of you shared doing nothing but writing and breathing. The metal taste of energy drinks reappears on the back of your tongue. 

The atmosphere of the room is dry and unrelenting. The quietness turns into a faint ringing in your ear. Sollux continues to keep his back facing toward you and you can barely swallow the feeling of disappointment radiating off of shoulders. It isn’t a good feeling, you’ll admit. It wasn’t cool or ironic in the slightest. It was something you were always afraid of, something that made the pit of your stomach turn cold. Tavros had gone quiet, the erratic twitching had ended. You focused on the sound of vinyl rubbing against the carton as Sollux moved around your collection. The was a gentle hum from the air conditioning vibrating against the window. Soft music emanating from the stereo. 

“How….is Feferi?” You ask.

“She’s fine,” Sollux replies.

“Still doing the marriage thing?” Your throat feels dry.

“Is this where I make an ‘I-Hate-My-Marriage’ joke and the audience laughs?” Sollux turns to look at you.

You smile, but only just a tad. “You get one free ‘I-Hate-My-Marriage’ jokes every two-hundred pages. But you lose your card when you actually get married, remember?”

“Yeah, I’ll wait when I’m sixty or something.” 

“Isn’t that like, next year?” You rummage with the pages on the tabletop calendar.   
  
“Wow, fuck you.” Sollux laughs and you feel a little better about everything. He has a very nice laugh, one that was rare and saved for special occasions. Sometimes, when you do something right, you get to hear it and it makes you smile. If he wasn’t straight, married, and your co-worker, you might totally land a smooch on his sarcastic face. 

Tavros’s phone rings and the tune from the movie ‘Hook’ reverberates from his pocket, “Oh, uh excuse me for a moment.” He leaves the two of you alone and steps out of the room. He slips his shoes on and heads outside, whispering quietly into the handheld device.

“So, what’s with the recluse act you’re performing?” Sollux sits back down, a cigarette between his lips as he paws for the lighter in his pocket.

“I’m not a recluse, there is nothing wrong with taking a break from being gawked at. A guy needs beauty rest,” You shrug, “Didn’t you quit smoking a year ago?”

The lighter flicks open, “No amount of rest is going to fix your face, Strider. Get that through your fat head,” Sollux inhales like an old movie-star that went just went through something traumatizing. You admire this subtle homage and stock it into your memory, “I did, just like I became vegan.”

You fake gasp, “How could you?”

Smoke circles above his head in circles. The smell reminds you of your childhood apartment in Texas. Sollux gives a nonchalant shrug, “I tried to, I didn’t smoke for months. It was all fine and dandy for a while but I dunno, my coping mechanisms aren’t healthy. I would like to call it a character trait but I’m not poetic like that.”

“Does Feferi know?” You rest your cheek on the palm of your hand.

“No, so don’t tell her.” The ashes tap into the tray on the coffee table.

“Scout’s honor,” You make the symbol with your hand.

“Yeah….you were never a boy scout. Don’t give me fake promises.” He is smiling, the corners of his eyes creasing.

Tavros opens the door, nose crinkling at the smell. He takes two steps forward and leans over the armrest of the couch, “It’s for you.”

He hands you his cellphone, hands shaking like they always do. You take the device from his grasp, not paying any attention to the caller ID and hold it up to your ear. “Yo, this is Dave Strider speaking, what would you like to order?” 

The familiar voice fills your ears without hesitation. Monotone and devoid of emotion. 

_“Bro is dead, thought you would want to know.”_

Your feel your hands go numb and the phone clacks to the floor.


	3. Stayin' Alive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i drew something for this chapter!!! wow!
> 
> and looks like my self-indulgent self, yet again, pours into Sollux  
> if you havent noticed, he is my favorite

The sweltering heat clogged your throat when you thought about your old bedroom. The way the light poured in from the window. The sound of the fan buzzing in the corner. When the wires scurrying across your floor would dig into the arch of your feet when you paced around. The cinderblock desks. If you had to ability to cry, you would. But no matter how much the back of your eyes sting, not a drop of liquid spills out. You can’t tell if you’re sad or not, whether you were relieved or distraught. Is this normal, you thought to yourself. The red eyes that stared back at you in the mirror were murky. Everything was after you heard the voice of your other brother. How long had it been? Maybe ten years since the last time you saw him personally. Maybe five since the two of you spoke. It was never his fault, it was yours for being so busy. 

“Are you going to fly to Houston? For the uh, funeral?” Tavros asked you Tuesday morning when he brought you soup. How nice.

“No, I’m not going anywhere.” You had mumbled from under the blanket you had entangled yourself in. 

“What about Dirk?” He lifted the fabric, his warm brown eyes taking in the sight of the crumpled adult man that was you. Pitiful.

“He won’t show up.” The facial hair you had let accumulate had grown as much as it could. You looked scruffy and homeless in your white tank top and grey sweatpants. 

“Karkat, uh, called you.”

“I know.”

Tavros left hours later after cleaning your apartment up. He hasn’t stopped by since, but he called every other day to make sure you hadn’t croaked. If he had any sense left in his head he would have ditched you years ago. Fortunately, he has yet to. It took you six days to get up and slap yourself for being so uncool. There was no point in moping over something you couldn’t fix. Those red eyes pierced into your skin, pupils blown out and focused. This was the worst version of Dave you had seen since you were thirteen. He wasn’t as skinny or short like back then, but the dried sweat and grease made you gag. When you blinked, you expected the image in the mirror to keep his eyes open. You couldn’t see him move unless you were, but that couldn’t possibly be the same person. 

You jerked forward, grabbing the razor and shaving cream. Too much of the blue gel squirted into your palm but you slapped it onto your cheeks anyway. The foam went up your nostrils and into your mouth. It didn’t faze you and you dragged the razor against the grain of your jaw. It was too fast, too fast to be safe. You were never good at shaving, though you had to do it every day to keep the prickliness away. You were never taught how to do it properly so you learned by watching your brother. Dirk didn’t really grow facial hair either, but he shaved because it was a cool thing to do. He would press the straight blade into the hollow part of his cheek too hard and nick himself every time. The red beads of blood were something you thought was normal until you watched Bro. He never taught you how to shave either because, well, it wasn’t a lesson he deemed worthy. You saw him do it once, just one time. He shaved his beard into a mustache as a joke on Christmas Eve. It didn’t last though, because the more he looked into the mirror the more he hated it. 

You stopped, razor pressed to your chin as you realized what you had been doing. Blood mixed with shaving cream. The warmed foam was running down your neck and onto the bathroom counter. Water dripped down your nose and into your mouth. You had cut your face from being so forceful. It felt like hundreds of tiny papercuts burning. You looked into the red that reflected back at you. They were so angry. The blade clobbered into the sink, mixing with the lost hairs and bloody foam. You grabbed the handtowel to your right and gently patted your face dry so you could examine the damage. 

It was nothing terrible, just a couple dots along your cheek. You pressed the towel into the tiny wounds so they would stop bleeding. It feels like forever, but the bleeding stops. You stare at the dirtied sink in defeat. It takes a minute but you muster the courage to clean it and later change. The feeling of clean clothes relaxes your muscles. Your phone begins to ring as you sit at your desk, dubstep ringtone echoing in the once previously silent office. It’s Karkat.

“Yo, this is Dave speaking,” Your voice croaks from lack of use.

“Now you decide to pick up. Jesus Christ, just when you think a man is dead he pops out of the ground like daisies. I called you earlier, you didn’t answer. I was trying to be a decent person and make sure you hadn’t turned over but you let me go to voicemail. Rude, honestly,” Karkat’s raspy voice is welcomed eagerly through open ears. He doesn’t sound mad, not even irritated. His tone is soft and understanding. Any violent words held no true intentions. 

“I missed you, too, man.”  
Karkat goes silent on the other line.

“Too gay for you?” You muse.

“No, it’s fine. I guess you could say I missed you, too.” He whispers. 

“I’m okay, Karkles.” 

“I’m glad,” Karkat doesn’t make a remark about the nickname and changes the topic. You let yourself smile throughout the rest of the conversation. Laughing when Karkat tried to insult you or told you about what you missed the past few weeks. Bro didn’t cross your mind after you said goodbye and hung up. You didn’t think of him the rest of the night or the next morning. He didn’t reappear in your subconscious when you walked into your studio that night. In fact, you completely forgot about him for the next month. 

“A black coffee is fine. Thank you.”

The waitress pours Sollux a cup of coffee and fills yours with apple juice. The diner was quiet as it wasn’t prime time just yet. You personally liked coming at the odd hours so there were fewer people. On the plus side, fewer people meant faster service. This time you weren’t alone, accompanied by Sollux for brunch. You watched as he gulped from the cup rather hungrily and then set it down. He wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve. 

“Whoa, chill. You get free refills.” You picked up the silverware bundle from the table and unwrapped it, fiddling with the fork. 

Sollux rolled his eyes and took another sip, this time slower. Unlike him, you liked to appreciate the sustenance you put in your mouth. The guy was always on edge and buzzing from energy drinks when you met. There were maybe four times in your entire friendship that he was disturbingly calm and two of those times you would rather not think about.

He was dressed casually today: a long-sleeved black shirt and jeans. His shoes were matching for once and his glasses were missing. When he looked at you, his gaze was less invasive than usual. The lenses on the glasses he typically wore were dark, similar to sunglasses. They were some kind of prescription lenses to ease his migraines. One of Sollux’s eyes is a piercing blue while the right was a dark brown, basically black. You could only see the pupil on the left one. He was one of the only people to have a total understanding of the whole sunglasses thing. Sollux didn’t make it a big deal and you never mentioned his situation out loud. You stared sometimes, but only because he couldn’t tell. 

“Dave, can we talk about something serious?” Sollux leaned back into the booth, refusing to meet your gaze.

It caught you off guard, “Uh, yeah. I can do serious.” 

He withholds his eyes from looking anywhere but his hands. His nails are bitten down to the quick, but only on the left. It was some childish tick that only happened when he was really nervous. You grew out of it years ago, but it never got to the degree Sollux’s did. He bit his nails bloody.

“I think I’m going to ask Feferi for a divorce.”

Oh. 

Huh.

Did you hear him correctly?

You watch as he slowly looks up and stares into your shades. His eyes are searching for yours and whether he knows it or not, he hit the mark right on the nose. You don’t know what to really say as you had never been in this situation. You have never been married and you grew up without married parents. You never knew anyone who went through a divorce and this was something you never expected. You met Sollux after he got married, meeting Feferi later on. When he spoke of it there was nothing bad to say. Nothing terrible. He got irritated at times, but who didn’t? Feferi had him quit smoking and switch to vegan meals. Sollux started smoking again recently and tried to stick to veganism when Feferi was around. He, despite what he told people, was an extremely affectionate person when it came to his significant others. Underneath all that skin and bones was a sap. You just had to push past all the barbed wire first.

“Why?” That was your response. God, that was so lame. You facepalmed mentally.

Sollux looks away, biting his lower lip, “She didn’t do anything wrong, it’s just me.”

“What do you mean?” You take a sip of your apple juice.

“I’m gay, I think.” He rubs his eyes with his palms.

You spit your drink all over him.


	4. My Kind of Woman

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> more art for this chapter  
> um  
> next chapter more karkat, a dash of terezi, and that john guy everyone is talking about. perhaps a dirk appearence? thats a lot of people oh gorsh
> 
> the chapter titles are all songs that come on while i write them  
> the title of the fic is obviously the song 'pretty fly for a white guy' by the offspring
> 
> thank you for the kudos and comments!! :'))))

When you got back to your office Tavros was sat in your chair. You can see him through the glass door leaned over the desk and chatting with someone. The person was hidden by the rest of the doorframe. According to the calendar on your phone and what you remember, he didn’t have any meetings planned with or without you. He has a nervous expression, but that could honestly just be his face. Sometimes when you looked at him, you thought about how he looked like a kicked puppy. You hadn’t thought anyone of importance would be in that room. Pertaining to business, you mean. It could have been an assistant or a friend. So when you gripped the doorknob and pushed the door open you watched as Tavros’s eyes darted upwards and widened when he met your gaze. Time appeared to slow down. Your eyebrows furrowed and as the door turned, sunlight flashed against the glass and blocked out the person from across the desk. It was an orange haze due to your lenses. Even with sunglasses, the reflection hurt your eyes and caused you to squeeze them shut. 

When you opened them, you were surprised. Your hand had yet to let go of the handle, and you had one foot in front of the other, midstep. Tavros had stood from your chair and shuffled to the side so you could sit down if you wanted. You had no intention to; you hadn’t planned on staying long. The person in the chair had their head turned to face you with a look of exasperation. 

“Funny seein’ you here, Dave,” Eridan Ampora said sitting in your office chair. In your office. In the building you owned. 

“Good one,” You had replied, mouth dry, “What a peculiar coincidence to see you here during this time in space.”

He quirked a smile, “I gotta say, I was expectin’ a more red interior. Alternatively, I feel like I’m in a hospital.”

You let go of the doorknob finally and gestured around the room, “Yeah, turns out red is really expensive so I went with a futuristic atmosphere. Really gets the creative juices flowing.” 

Eridan Ampora was an actor, a pretty famous one at that. A socialite and a businessman. He had been acting since he was a child and was a snobby little shit. You’ve run into him countless times at parties and events. He knew which people to be around to keep himself relevant. Eridan came from a business family and everyone he was related to was either rich or some sort of ‘royalty’, but that description should be taken lightly. You once saw him snort cocaine off of the sanitary napkin disposal in the women’s restroom during a New Years’ party, but you won’t dwell on that. The bottom line, the guy and you have nothing in common. He didn’t do comedies, and he didn’t make music, and he was privileged in every way possible.  
  
Just like you had merely a few seconds ago, Sollux barged through the door and squeezed his eyes shut when the light bounced off the glass. He continued speaking throughout the ordeal, 

“Strider, I’m going to get us lunch what do you want-” He halted at the sight of Ampora, “....To order.”

It felt like a standoff in an old western film. The carpet turned into sand and there was the weight of a gun in your pocket. Tavros had a poncho slung over his shoulder and a silly wide brim cowboy hat. Sollux’s fingers twitched, covered in ink. The room was full of sweltering heat and tension. Eridan was dressed like a Victorian gentleman, his eyebrows quirked in amusement. You lifted your hand and scratched the jaw you swore was cleanshaven just a minute ago. Funny how that works. You blinked and the mirage was gone. Your imagination is really obscure.

“Sollux, what a coincidence.” You turn to Sollux in shock of the fact they knew each other. The guy wasn’t famous, and he wasn’t rich either. His wife (ex-wife? Current but soon to be ex-wife?) was, but the money Sollux made was humble. His name was on end-screen credits, but he wasn’t known elsewhere. Just a string of letters at the end of a movie. “We keep bumpin’ into each other.”

Sollux snapped his focus towards you, “What’s _he_ doing here, Dave?”

“That I do not know, young padawan. Perhaps we should ask my manager…. Tavros why is Eridan Ampora squatting in my office?” Everyone turned to stare at Tavros who had broken into a sweat.

“Well, he….uh,”

“I came to talk to you about your new movie,” Eridan interjected.

“Why would you do that?” You inquired suspiciously. 

“I thought you could direct the script I wrote,” His tone was innocent, grinning with his perfect white teeth.

“You can write?” Sollux sneered. 

“I can read, too,” Eridan’s grin only got wider. It didn’t feel like he came to see you but instead to perform some kind of show in your office.

“That’s funny, I thought you paid people to do that for you.”

“I don’t think you know how actin’ works, Sol.” 

“So, you’re telling me that you want me to direct a movie that you wrote? Are you being serious?” You lean towards Tavros, “Is he being serious?”

“I don’t understand what’s so hard to get here. You’re an academy award-winnin’ director, why would I joke about this?” Eridan’s smile faltered as he put his hands up in an innocent shrug. 

“You do realize I make comedy movies, right? Not kissy-kissy drama hallmark movies? I’m talking about Adam Sandler movies but instead, the joke is that they are actually funny.” Despite your monotone voice, you could feel yourself getting defensive. 

“No, you produced _Knight of Time_ just this past year,” Eridan states matter-of-factly. 

You let out a tiny laugh, “No, that’s called societal pressure. I think you have the wrong office, Ampora. If you want someone more capable of what you’re looking for the building across the street has great sidewalk muggings. It really brings the thrill of a movie to real life.”

“Can you do me the favor of just readin’ my script. If you don’t like it then I’ll leave you alone,” He crosses his arms, aura reeking of confidence and douchebaggery. 

There’s a clicking sound followed by the scent of smoke. Sollux plopped down onto the loveseat against the wall. His glasses were folded neatly on the coffee table and his legs were crossed. It caught you off guard the way he was glaring at Ampora, like he had a personal vendetta. “I have a migraine,” His voice just barely above a whisper. 

  
“Fine, I’ll read the script if it’ll get you out of my hair,” You held your hand out.

Eridan took your hand in a firm handshake, “Thank you for your charity.”

You suck air in between your teeth, forcing yourself to smile, “My pleasure.”

The smell of sandalwood and lavender clogs your nostrils as he brushed past you and out of the office. The scent is stuck there for a minute until a waft of cigarette smoke shoved its way in there. It doesn’t affect you like it does other people. You’re used to it. You kind of like it in a crude way. Like you enjoy the scent of gasoline or burned matches. It makes you think of swords nailed to the walls and puppets. Sollux didn’t smell like cigarettes despite smoking them. You don’t know what godly power he contains but when he leans close enough or when you bump into him, you smell citrus and linen. It must ooze from his skin or something.

“I’m sorry, he barged in. I didn’t want to be, uh, rude,” Tavros rubs the back of his neck, eyes cast downward. 

“Don’t sweat it. He’s a fancy type of roach,” You pat him on the back and throw Eridan’s script into the trashbin under your desk.

  
It’s around four o’clock in the afternoon when you leave your office. You stayed longer than you had anticipated, you really only came to look productive. Tavros helped reconstruct your schedule for the upcoming weeks. It was very calm compared to hours earlier. During breaks, you would glance down to the papers in the garbage bin and a little nerve in your throat would twitch. You didn’t want to feel guilty throwing something so personal away. All pieces of art are a thread of the person who wrote them. No matter how much you wanted to turn the offer down, to not even read the words he typed, a small part of yourself felt what it would be like if the person who jumpstarted your career had done the same. Of course, Eridan Ampora wasn’t a nobody with thirteen dollars in his pocket. He wasn’t white-trash that had just been kicked from their place of residence. You weren’t putting a dreamer on the front lines. 

And yet, you bent down and gently pinched the corners of the stapled stack of papers and lifted them from the trash. Tavros watched you smooth it out and turn a couple of pages, skimming it over. It didn’t look terrible. You put it in the metal tray on the corner of your desk to read later. 

Your shoes looked like blood against snow as you sauntered down the hall. Footsteps echoed upon white and grey walls. Every room looked different than the last, some bright and colorful while others were as bland as the halls outside. You didn’t have many people working for you, there weren’t many jobs to fill. You didn’t run an agency or anything, just a few assistants and stylists who stuck by your side. They had their own space in your building which was the shortest one on the block compared to the ones surrounding it. You like to think it had character.

The only people who would be left in the building would be you and Tavros. Sollux left not too long before you had, muttering about being late for a meeting. A meeting for what, you had no clue. He worked for other companies, directors, and businesses. He was scattered all over the place. 

“Shh!”

Your footsteps came to a halt at the sound of someone making a shushing sound. You consider yourself to have particularly acute hearing. It was something your brother taught you how to do. To actually listen instead of just hearing. Sounds like it’s the same thing but it really isn’t. You like to pride yourself on your ninja skills and rapping ability. If anyone was the coolest spy, it would be you. 

There were two people just adjacent to you, the next hall down. You could turn the corner and meet them. A voice in the back of your head told you to be cautious just in case someone wanted to put you in the twenty-seven club. Just kidding, they would be two years late. A morbid bummer. Nonetheless, caution. When you took your next step, it was silent. It was like floating on the meniscus, barely indenting the tension of the water. 

When you turned that corner and looked down that hall, you thought you would see a co-worker or a man with a loaded gun. Not Sollux Captor pressed against the wall by the guy who’s manuscript you just picked from the trash. Eridan had him lifted a few inches so the tips of his shoes just barely grazed the tile. Sollux’s arm was wrapped around the other man’s shoulders, kissing him like it would be the last time. Eridan’s hands kept them steady against the wall, chest pushing into Sollux’s stomach. 

Your face burned as red as your shoes. It wasn’t something intended for you to see. Something you shouldn’t have witnessed. When you started to turn around to flee out of there, your nerves got the best of you. Your heels squeaked loudly against the floor like tennis shoes at a basketball game. It was tumultuous and vibrated through your whole body. Your heart leaped into the back of your mouth, and you had to clamp your lips shut so it wouldn’t spring out. 

The two men just feet away jumped. Sollux jerked his head and locked onto you with pupils and the whites of his eyes blown wide. The shock matched yours in the sense of mortification. Eridan’s whole body tensed as he slowly rotated his head forty-five degrees to stare at you. The silence was thick and heavy. The air was condensing and enveloping those stuck around it. When you opened your mouth to say something, you expected your heart to somersault onto the ground and splatter the walls with red. But it didn’t, you just opened and closed your mouth several times like a fish before just absconding onto another planet.


End file.
